


i wouldn't know where to start, when to stop

by kiranxrys



Series: i feel something when i see you now [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Neurodivergent Julian Bashir, Post Episode: s05e15 By Inferno's Light, accidental sugar daddy garak undertones, some holiday sweetness from yours truly, the garashir space IKEA fic is here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28287132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranxrys/pseuds/kiranxrys
Summary: Julian Bashir is quite certain that all he needs to fix the mess left behind by Internment Camp 371 is some new furniture. His first mistake is asking Garak to come shopping with him.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: i feel something when i see you now [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072052
Comments: 22
Kudos: 144





	i wouldn't know where to start, when to stop

**Author's Note:**

> I said it would happen and here it is - the garashir space IKEA fic. I hope it's cheery and funny and sweet enough, some of that angst always seems to slip through. Expect pretend relationship, a few realisations, and [djungelskog](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ec/6f/d0/ec6fd037caab2c52ad7d647ebfe9e6e9.png) :)
> 
> Fic title from Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers.

Early mornings are strange on Deep Space 9. Julian can remember waking to tell-tale sunrises back at school on Earth, pale light streaming in through the shutters he had forgotten to close the night before after an exhaustive study session. He would open his eyes to more fatigue, another unanswered message from his mother, a hurried breakfast while his roommate recited Dickinson and Angelou and Rich beneath her breath in the far corner. There are some people out there on stations and ships – most of them children, but some of them merely recluses, hermits tucked away in the dark folds of space – who have never seen sunlight. Not from the surface of a planet, anyhow. Julian can’t imagine. 

They don’t have sunrises on DS9. He’s heard Kira complain about it every now and then, usually after she comes back from Bajor with tanned forearms and lily seeds and prayer candles gifted to the Emissary. They didn’t have sunrises in Internment Camp 371, either. 

Julian woke up too early today, and it’s thrown his mind off the stable track he’s been trying to coax it back onto ever since his return. The moment his eyes snapped open at around 0400 hours this morning, he knew he wasn’t getting back to sleep. He never does. His brain was ticking too fast. The perfectly planned day before him, set out in neat lines within his mind, was ruined.

He was too tired to exercise like he normally did. Then his PADD ran out of battery while he was keeping himself occupied until it was time to get up, and now he can’t finish reviewing the report stored on it that he was writing last night. His quarters need tidying, but that was supposed to come _after_ the report-reviewing. All he can really do it sit here. 

It’s 0715 hours. His commbadge chirps. 

_“Julian, it’s Jadzia here.”_

He stares at the grey-blue walls, the grey-blue furniture. “I know. Morning.” 

_“I was just checking you’re awake. You’re having breakfast with Nerys and I today, remember?”_

“I remember,” Julian replies shortly. He has a schedule, neatly embedded in the framework of his mind. He has a good memory. He remembers everything. “I’ll see you in the replimat in fifteen.”

He doesn’t even have work today. Sisko’s mandate. At least two days off a week. It’s ridiculous, with everything going on right now – the station can’t afford to have absent Chief Medical Officers, but there's nothing he can do.

D

He takes a deep breath. His report doesn’t need to be submitted until the end of the week, so he can finish it tomorrow. The mess on his desk and shelves can wait too. That cuts his list of things to do today down to three. Three is very achievable. He runs a hand through his hair, fiddles with his collar, snaps his fingers to bring himself to attention. 

People tend to meet Julian Bashir and assume he must be a mess, personally. Professionally he’s faultless, and currently the recipient of a lot of widespread sympathy. Sympathy is preferable to admiration, at least. No one deserves a medal for surviving. It’s really the bare minimum.

Breakfast with Jadzia and Kira is just fine. Ziyal is there, too, talking about her new art project. She’s painting the native flowers of Bajor and Cardassia. It’s about all he catches before he can’t concentrate anymore, Ziyal’s words becoming too intertwined with the background chatter to make out. He takes a sip of his raktajino, but it doesn’t taste right this morning. Something about the funny feeling in the back of his throat from only sleeping for three or four hours last night. 

Kira says something to him.

“Hm?”

“I asked what you were doing today,” she repeats, a slight furrow in her brow. “Jadzia tells me it’s your day off.”

He coughs. “Er, yes. It is. I’m going to stop by the homeware freighter that docked last night. I need to pick up a couple of things for my quarters.” He’s been planning this for a week, ever since he learned from chatter that the freighter would be in the sector and stopping at Deep Space 9. Something has to change about his room before he loses his mind altogether. Where it’d once given him the space to think clearly, calmly, the bareness now reminds him of prison cells.

“You’re sure you don’t need any help with that?” Jadzia asks. “I have time this afternoon.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m going this morning.”

He can feel all the weight of her gaze, discerning and _too damn sympathetic._ “If you’re sure.”

“I’m _sure.”_

“I’ve never been on a homeware freighter before,” Ziyal remarks brightly. She’s very good at redirections.

Kira checks the chronometer on the wall. “I’ll take you tomorrow,” she says, swallowing down her last mouthfuls of raktajino. “But Jadzia and I need to be in Ops right now. Don’t get into any trouble.” It’s hard to tell whether she was addressing her unofficially adopted, half-Cardassian daughter or Julian himself. He sighs. He probably needs the advice more than Ziyal does, either way. 

“If you need anything, just call,” Jadzia tells him with a smile curving her lips. But the look in her ocean-blue eyes is rather sad, and sorry.

It’s been long enough now for her to drop that.

He tries to smile back. “Yes, I know.”

When they’re gone, Ziyal leans across the table with a casual kindness he appreciates in this mire of light and colour and sound. She gave him one of her sketches when he got back – a small one on expensive paper that showed Quark’s bar in impressive detail. The stools at the counter were empty. When he looks at it, he thinks the picture has the sense of something _missing,_ but he supposes that’s the point.

“Do they sell framed art?” Ziyal asks him. “On this freighter.”

“Yes,” he replies. “They’ve got everything, really.”

She seems to consider that answer for a minute, before flicking the conversation’s weight off with a turn of her chin and meeting his eye again. “I had lunch with Garak yesterday.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” The thought makes him a little ill. Not because he thinks there’s anything… untoward about any of it. But it makes him remember how Garak and Ziyal had lunch with that… with that _other Julian_ right here in the replimat, maybe at this very table. The Changeling sat here and was pleasant and quiet and subdued and _easy to get along with_ and none of them had suspected a thing.

“He talked about you,” Ziyal comments. “You know, he always talks about you.”

There’s something implied in her tone, but Julian has never been very good at implications. He shrugs and pushes away his finished plate even though his mother always used to say that wasn’t good table manners and his father always used to glare as if Julian merely making a sound was some kind of intrusion or misstep. 

That’s how the Changeling did it. They knew how to keep their mouth closed.

“He said you used to have lunch together every week.”

“We did,” Julian agrees. “For years, actually – every week we could. Until, uh, unforeseen circumstances broke the streak.” By which he means, _I was captured by the Dominion, and they replaced me like I was nothing, and the walls in my quarters are too bare and I need new cushions._ It’s funny how things work out. “I’m… well, I’m going to go find him this morning,” he says. “See if I can’t chivvy him up a bit and get him out of his shop for once.”

Ziyal beams. “I’m sure he’ll like that.”

“Hmph. If you say so.” Garak doesn’t seem to like much of anything at the moment. Understandable, of course, given everything that happened with Tain, everything about the shameful corpse that the Jem’Hadar guards collected an hour later as Garak simply stood and watched them take his father away. Julian wouldn’t say Garak’s been avoiding him, per se – no more than _he’s_ been avoiding Garak in return. There is too much to talk about.

Something changed in the cell in Internment Camp 371. Julian sat there in the shadowed corner while Tain, blind and brutally honest, choked on his final rasping breaths. And Garak let him sit there.

He would’ve gone, if Garak had asked. 

“See you around, Ziyal,” he says by way of parting. “Good luck on your, er, project.”

“Yes, I’d better go find Jake,” she sighs. “We’ve so much to do.”

He can’t quite remember where Jake factored into the whole thing but decides to work out later. He doesn’t want Ziyal to think he didn’t listen earlier because he wasn’t interested. It was just hard when everything else was so… there.

The raktajino hasn’t helped. It feels like a very early morning kind of day. 

_Breakfast, Garak, homewares, bed,_ he reminds himself. It’s a simple enough plan in his mind.

Garak’s tailor shop looks almost _professional_ these days. The first time Julian visited it – well, the old one, in any case – it was a strange little place, filled with shadows and garments askew on their racks and a rather mysterious stain on the floor in one of the fitting rooms. That was not long after the end of the Occupation. Julian was new to the station. It seemed much larger then, if only because he had seen so much less of it. _Garak’s Clothiers_ now is brighter and neater and _exclusive._ He could never justify paying the prices there, if Garak wasn’t so obsessed with gifting him handmade, tailored clothes for free. 

He drags himself over the threshold, trying to rub some of the exhaustion out of his eyes before Garak’s discerning gaze can pick him apart head to toe. 

“Ah, my _dear_ doctor, what can I do for you today?”

He always gets the first word in.

Julian cracks a smile despite himself. “That depends, _my dear Mister Garak,”_ he replies, meeting Garak’s piercing eyes with delight he can’t contain. Garak has ten times the power of a mug of raktajino. It’s something about the way he looks at people and leans in when he speaks, you’re either excited or you’re terrified. Or, in Julian’s case, sometimes rather exasperated. Garak is wearing blue today – a surprisingly _strong_ blue despite its dark hue. Blue is a rare choice for him, but Julian can’t help but think it makes his eyes look all the more striking. “Are you busy?”

“Attempting to drag me from my post once again, Doctor?” Garak asks with a sly expression.

“I don’t see any customers,” he points out, glancing around. The shop _is_ empty. It is most of the time – Garak gets a lot of orders.

“Is my time worth _so_ little to you?”

Rolling his eyes, Julian steps around a mannequin displaying an ornate olive-green jacket and gives Garak his most winning look. He’s managed to get several free drinks out of that look in his life before. “I’m going to the freeware freighter that arrived last night.”

“And I imagine you want my help deciding upon the superior décor?”

“You do have excellent taste.”

Garak sighs. “I suppose I do. We are all saddled with our own burdens in life, Doctor.”

“And yours would be always knowing better, of course.”

There is no hint of sarcasm in Garak’s tone when he smiles again and says, “of course.”

It doesn’t take much more than a minute for Garak to switch off the lights, turn the sign on the door to _Closed_ and lock up the front of the shop. He seems to be in quite a good mood today. He tells Julian all about some obnoxious customer he had come in the previous afternoon, regaling him with every overdramatic, petty detail. Julian leans against the doorframe and laughs at each little cutting remark.

They walk in silence around the Promenade and down into the docking ring, blending into the walls with their dark blues and deep greys and the way Garak never seems to make a sound when he moves. There’s probably a lot they could be talking about, Julian just doesn’t know where to start. The memory of the last time he said _my dear Mister Garak_ is bitter on his tongue, and tastes of the lifeless gruel that the Dominion fed its prisoners in Internment Camp 371. 

“Have you two been before?” the assistant asks politely as they enter, offering out a shopping device in yellow and blue branded casing. She’s viewing Garak with more than a little apprehension – maybe something to do with him being Cardassian, maybe something to do with the expression of vague distaste on his face. It is quite intimidating.

“I have,” Julian replies.

The assistant nods. “Then you’ll know the process. If you need transporter services, just input the request on your device. Happy shopping.” Then she waves them on into the store, ready to greet Bajoran family coming in behind them.

Garak gives a _hm._

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Julian asks even though he already knows. The first floor of the freighter stretches out before them, stark white and filled to the brim with pretend living rooms and glowing lamps and nurseries set up for non-existent children. There are two other floors to the freighter, not even counting the storage for all its wares. Ships like these have existed since forever, moving out into space when the Earth market dried up for obvious reasons. They have everything you could possibly need in life. Even a café. 

“Not particularly attentive when it comes to servicing their customers, are they?” Garak remarks. 

“Oh, so you’d prefer to have some tired assistant hanging over your shoulder trying to upsell you on the crockery, would you?” Julian says dryly. “I didn’t think so. Now, come on. I have a list.”

Garak’s huff is just audible above the general chatter and poppy music playing in the background. _“Why_ am I here, Doctor? To follow you around like a sorry pet and carry your purchases?”

Julian shrugs. “I won’t say no if you’re offering. But…” He sighs, resigning himself to honesty. “Really, Garak, I just wanted to see you. I mean I- I didn’t feel like shopping alone. It always feels conspicuous, you know.”

“And you couldn’t bring Chief O’Brien? Or Commander Dax?”

“Jadzia is busy, even if she says she isn’t,” he answers. “And Miles and I…”

“Why,” Garak says, pausing to examine some pale pile rugs and eyeing Julian sideways with his pointed curiosity, “you can’t mean something has come between the great comradery of Doctor Julian Bashir and Chief Miles O’Brien.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Perhaps there _should_ be nothing come between them, no more than there should be come between him and Jadzia or Sisko or Kira or even _Garak._ But to that very awful wound Miles had been the one to add salt, to deal the final stinging blow. Julian can hardly look at him without remembering what he said in the Infirmary, frowning as if the truth was unremarkable at best. 

_He only meant it as a joke._ That’s what Jadzia said. 

“I need cushions,” he states. “And a new mirror.”

“Of course, Doctor. How else could you practice that _charming_ smile of yours?”

“You think I’m charming?”

The corner of Garak’s mouth twitches. “Endlessly so.”

They wander down the marked paths through the furniture displays, arranged by theme and style. There’s everything from 21st-century simplicity to the bright colours and strange shapes of 23rd-century abstraction. Designs reminiscent of many cultures, even some wall tapestries in shades that Julian’s human eyes can’t see. At one point he spots Leeta through one of the pretend windows in one of the pretend kitchens and gives her a small wave and a smile. She waves back and Garak glowers. 

Julian picks out a new set of mugs for raktajino – Garak _insists_ on blue, scanning them on his device before adding them to the trolley he forced Garak to push along for them. They find cushions that match his sofa, a simple round mirror to go in the living room and an interesting lamp made of twisted blue glass that Garak clearly hates but holds his tongue over. Julian just rolls his eyes and presses the button to call for an assistant, not trusting the lamp to Garak’s care in case his strong aesthetic feelings take over and he resorts to extreme measures. 

A young human woman approaches them, dark-haired and rather harried looking. By Garak’s expression, her yellow striped shirt must be something of an offence to fashion. Julian hopes he keeps his mouth shut about it. It’s not like the poor woman can do anything about the uniform, no more than Julian can do to rectify the alleged crimes of Starfleet designers.

“You’d like that one transported over, sir?” she asks, nodding to the lamp. 

“Yes, thank you. These are my room details, you can just put it anywhere – I’ll deal with it later.”

The assistant takes his device and inputs a few commands, a loose curl of hair falling over her face every other moment despite her best efforts to brush it back behind an ear. Just like the greeter at the entrance, her eyes keep flicking nervously towards Garak as she works. If he were with Ziyal or any other Cardassian – save perhaps Dukat – he might’ve been bothered, but he’s pretty sure her anxiety is more to do with Garak’s… Garak-ness. He gives his companion a subtle nudge in the side with his elbow that he hopes reads as _stop trying to be intimidating or they won’t let us come back next year._

That is, if there is a next year for them on Deep Space 9. Sisko tells them they should always be prepared to evacuate and Julian schedules monthly drills for the medical staff. The protocols hang on posters on the wall. Kira talks as if the Cardassians, the Dominion, will never have the station, but there’s a tell-tale stiffness in her shoulders when she says it. 

And now he feels miserable again. His neck twitches and he shoves the shiver down, gritting his teeth. Maybe he should have come alone. Maybe he shouldn’t have come at all – he doesn’t actually _need_ a new mirror. He could’ve lived without it.

 _Retail therapy,_ he remembers. Quark swears by it, but then, as a medical professional he’d probably advise anyone to get their psychological advice from a more reputable source.

“Is there uh- anything else you need today?” the assistant asks.

Something catches Julian’s attention out of the corner of his eye. A small Bajoran girl making a beeline for the nearest bedroom display, laughing as she leaps onto the mattress and disturbs the perfectly arranged collection of patterned pillows. His head tells him to open his mouth and tell her _no._ “You know what?" he mutters. "To hell with it."

“With what?” Garak asks mildly. 

“I want a new bed,” he says, more to Garak than to the assistant. “A _real_ bed. I’ve spent five years sleeping on your Cardassian mattresses and I’m- I’m sick of it. It’s like lying on a slab of concrete every night.”

“Cardassian beds are designed to be ergonomic, not luxurious.”

Maybe he’s right. But Garak only lived in their shared cell for a few days, and when he slept he was so exhausted from panic he often wasn’t aware of where he lay. Julian spent more than a month resting on cold, hard metal, sometimes hardly sleeping for days. All he wanted to do was sink into comfort and darkness, but the Dominion forces were always there, always watching. “I’m getting a new bed,” he tells Garak. “You can’t stop me.”

Garak shrugs. “I would never dream of attempting to do so.”

“Please, let me show you what we have on offer,” the assistant practically begs, flushed. “You can leave your uh… cart here. I’ll make sure all of that ends up… in the right place.” She waves them further into the store, murmuring something to herself that can’t be heard over the Earth classics indie-pop playing in the background. Julian thinks he probably should have asked for her name. 

As they walk by the dark wood bookcases, his personal PADD buzzes in the pocket Garak sewed into his uniform trousers when he had them tailored. He puts it away again the moment he sees the source of the message. He understands why she wants to talk to him. He just wishes she would leave him alone.

When word got around about what had happened, she asked him to come home for winter and the new year. He told her no. He didn’t want a repeat of the last time and besides, Deep Space 9 needs him, even if he can only work for half the week by Sisko’s orders. _Garak needs him._ Odo is busy reviewing the stations emergency protocols, and Ziyal is on Bajor every other week. Who else would Garak have to eat lunch with him?

“Nothing important,” he says in response to the question in Garak’s eyes. He almost says, _just my parents,_ but that would prompt too many follow-up queries and pointed remarks and might come across a little insensitive. They don’t talk about family. He changes course to move out of the way of a couple and their trolley going the other way, into the space beneath Garak’s figurative wing, and ignores it when their shoulders brush.

“This is our most popular Earth-style model,” the shop assistant is explaining, “purchasable with or without one of our high-tech moulding mattresses guaranteed to support a range of forms and body types. It’s all fully customizable,” she adds. “Whatever colours you want… all of that.”

Julian frowns down at the piece of furniture. “It’s perfectly nice, but-”

“Or we have the slightly larger version,” she continues before he can finish. “Which comes in a more traditional design if you’d like, or even with one of our classic painted iron frames.” She gestures towards the bed in question, sitting in the next display room over. 

“The thing is,” he says, “I’m really only after a single bed.”

“Oh.” The assistant stares at him like she doesn’t quite understand. Her eyes wander towards Garak, then back again. “Okay. Well, uh…”

Hanging around just behind his shoulder, Garak huffs, his breath cool on the back of Julian’s neck. What he finds so funny about this conversation, Julian couldn’t possibly say. 

“I’m on a bit of a budget,” he explains, sort of pointlessly. 

“You know, I think the double bed might be more appropriate, my dear,” Garak suggests, speaking with so little warning that Julian jolts in surprise. “You do have the space.”

“Well, I- if you say so,” Julian says, frowning harder. “But the cost-”

Stepping around, Garak holds up a hand to silence him. “I will pay the extra, if I must.” He turns to the bewildered shop assistant without another word to Julian, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite manage to be entirely non-threatening. “The grey linen will do nicely, I believe, plus the grey and white pillows. No bed-end, I’m afraid Doctor Bashir would only end up walking into it after a long night at the bar. And please, I won’t have a single throw rug in sight.”

“Er, yes, sir, of course,” the poor assistant says, sounding more confused than ever. Julian is with her. He has no idea what the hell is going on, and he’s pretty sure Garak just forgot to add the _doctor_ on the end of _my dear._

“Wait right here,” she tells them, “I’ll uh, be right back.”

Julian blinks slowly once she’s gone, glancing between the display double bed and Garak. “What was that about?” he asks. “What did you mean, _the double bed might be more appropriate?_ You’ve got a thoroughly disturbed idea of my- of my _love life_ if you think-”

“Doctor, please,” Garak sighs. “I was only trying to avoid any embarrassment for that dear assistant. Clearly, she had… _misconstrued_ the nature of our relationship.” He looks as though he finds it rather amusing. “I thought it would be kinder to allow her to keep the misconception rather than expose her error.”

 _“Little error?”_ Julian repeats in disbelief. _“Garak,_ she thinks we’re-” But he cuts himself off when he sees the assistant hurrying back around the corner, clutching her device. God, this is something that could only happen with Garak. He’s trying to think if he did something weird to cause the misunderstanding, but he can only remember treating Garak like he normally would. 

“Right, that’s sorted,” the assistant says, a little out of breath. “Can I help you two to anything else?”

Julian’s mouth is open to reply _no, thank you_ when Garak twitches forward in the way he always does when he’s about to speak, and he closes it again. He’s not sure why. They came here to shop for _him,_ after all, though trust Garak to hijack it for whatever mysterious motivations take him in the moment.

“You know, now that you say it, I could use a new desk for my workroom,” Garak says. “Something large and practical. I’m sure you know where to find the ideal item."

The assistant nods. “Office furniture is upstairs, I’ll show you. Come this way.” They leave the pretend bedroom behind to find the main walkway and their trolley of purchases, which the assistant looks over with a curiosity she hadn’t before. “You have a nice range of choices, there,” she comments, and it doesn’t sound _all_ corporate order of politeness. 

“Yes, well,” Julian says. He flashes Garak a very pointed look. “We’ve _actually_ just moved in, so you couldn’t have arrived at a better time.” Rather than being irritated, Garak looks almost delighted by the falsehood. His eyes flash in a way that sends chills down Julian’s spine, even now. So much for vengeance. He should’ve known better than trying to play into Garak’s game, because now the assistant just looks rather pleased. When she hurries on ahead to press the button for the lift to the second floor, Garak leans in a little, close enough so that his breath tickles the back of Julian’s neck again.

“Very impressive, Doctor. I think even some of Cardassia’s greatest intelligence agents might have been fooled by such a convincing performance.” It’s hard to tell whether he’s being sarcastic or not.

“One would almost think you _enjoy_ lying to her for some reason,” Julian hisses, watching the trolley wheels turn so he doesn’t have to meet Garak’s eye again.

“Who says I don’t?” Garak asks. “Why, my dear doctor, I thought you of all people would understand the entertainment value of a good lie.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Garak chuckles. “Julian Bashir, secret agent? Is that little game of yours not as much of a lie as this is?”

“Except my holosuite programs don’t involve real people,” he replies. “That’s the point.”

There’s a beat of silence before Garak speaks again. “If it causes you any discomfort, I will make sure our dear friend understands that rather than your _cherished_ lover, I am merely a humble servant here to shoulder the burden of your many purchases.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Julian says quickly. He doesn’t want Garak to think the idea _offends_ him at all – he doesn’t care what the shop assistant thinks. He and Garak get along really well, they always have, and they’ve been through more together than most real couples have with the chip and Tain and Internment Camp 371 and honestly they’d probably be good together and… and that’s a weird thought to be thinking about a friend. But his mind is already in the process of conjuring too-vivid scenarios, imagining reactions, anxious as if it were real. “I… I mean, what is it you expect me to do, though? Keep playing along, pretend to be your _cherished lover_ like it’s some kind of game?”

“You don’t find the challenge amusing?”

“What challenge?”

“A test of those acting skills of yours,” Garak replies. “Those many hours in the holosuite must have come to something. The challenge isn’t in _telling_ a lie, Doctor. All of us, even the most noble and principled, _tell_ lies. The challenge comes in _living_ one.”

The whole way up in the lift, Julian thinks about living a lie, and wonders if he counts. He always did insist to Garak that a lie by omission is still a lie. 

When they step out into the office wares area, the assistant asks what kind of work Garak does.

“He’s a tailor,” Julian interjects. “He’s very talented, actually – he makes all of my clothes.” 

“That’s sweet of him.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he agrees in his most sugar-coated, _adoring_ tone, the one he hasn’t had reason to use since he and Leeta split up months ago. “I’m lucky to have him. He’s saved a lot more than my sense of style.” That’s not even exactly untrue. Garak has even saved his life. 

“I don’t think I’ve met a human and a Cardassian together before,” she remarks. “I’d love to hear about how you met.”

Julian raises an eyebrow at Garak to say, _was that good enough?_

Garak’s eyes glitter.

Garak takes a very long time picking out a new desk. Too long. Julian hovers over his shoulder for a while as payback for earlier, zoning out from the assistant’s explanations of various models and examining the individual scales on Garak’s neck instead. He likes how every scale is a slightly different shape and size – it’s the kind of thing his mind is easily occupied by. At one point he even lets his chin rest on Garak’s ridged shoulder, though careful not to touch any exposed skin. It’s surprisingly easy to turn on the affection around Garak. Maybe they’ve just known each other for that long. 

Bored of standing there, he wanders off for a bit to think about it while Garak ponders over drawers, returning a few minutes later to realise Garak must be talking about _him._ He catches flashes of _doctor_ and _unfortunate illness_ and the assistant giving a soft hum of sympathy.

“But that first time you met,” the assistant is saying as she pokes at her device, “when you approached him, did you _know?”_

Something pinches in Julian’s lungs as he hangs back behind a shelf and waits for Garak to answer.

“Julian… intrigued me,” Garak replies, and Julian jolts at the sound of that name – his _first_ name, as strange as if he’d referred to Garak as Elim instead. “At the time, my main concern was making contact with his superior about several _matters_ on the station. But I was distracted rather quickly, I fear.”

The assistant smiles. “I can imagine. You only got together this year, though?”

“That’s right,” Julian interrupts, forcing himself forwards. He slips an arm around Garak’s firm waist, partly to steady himself and partly because he refuses to let it all slip and fail the test just because Garak called him by his literal name. “I, er, took a while to figure things out.”

“Still, better late than never,” the assistant says.

Garak looks at Julian in a way that might give someone the impression they were about to be eaten whole. A devious kind of smile, imbued with an _especially the lies_ sort of delight. “I agree.”

The word that comes to Julian’s mind is _bastard._ He’s too good at this, too good at giving off the casual impression that Doctor Julian Bashir is the beginning and the end of his universe. Meanwhile, Julian feels like he’s beginning to flounder. He’s trying to remember how he was with Leeta, but all of those things are too Leeta-specific to work here.

He’s not going to let Garak beat him at this stupid challenge. He already always wins at kotra. 

An arm around Garak’s middle is enough, for now. Before the internment camp, it would’ve been the most they’d actually touched since Garak’s illness. It’s kind of nice – almost comforting – which is the strange thing. Julian either likes touching someone or wishes they’d keep on the outside of a three-metre radius, and he supposes Garak must fit into the former category these days. Even if it reminds him of Dominion prison, it reminds him of the only time jailed there that he ever felt any comfort. 

“If you have everything you need now,” the assistant says, “please, let me show you to the nearest checkout station. You can come back anytime this week, we’ll still be around.”

Julian has to let go of Garak to walk, leaving him feeling almost bereft. He nearly considers holding Garak’s hand just for the effect, but he feels like that might be taking it a bit _too_ far, especially knowing his own… tendencies. Besides, he’s not sure if Cardassians even _do_ hand-holding. Maybe they’d find it weird, or even obscene. What did Miles say after those Cardassian scientists visited the station that one time? Cardassians flirt by arguing?

He’s thinking about this too hard again. Jadzia always says the only way to live in this universe is to just forget about thinking and just _be,_ grinning as Worf huffs and Kira looks unconvinced. She’s a funny contradiction like that, because the only person Julian’s ever met who beats him in the schedule obsession department is her. There’s a reason why Deep Space 9 couldn’t have a better Science Officer. She just _schedules in_ that time to forget about thinking.

The assistant leads them past the display of a child’s nursery, and Julian sees it.

“Oh my God,” he says, stopping dead in his tracks. 

“Is something the matter?” Garak asks.

“What do you think? _Look_ at it.”

He’s pretty sure Garak is staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “At _what,_ my dear?”

But Julian isn’t listening. He starts forward, reaching out to close his fists around silky soft brown fur and raising the creature up with a kind of reverence. It might just be the greatest teddy bear Julian has ever seen, and he's seen Kukalaka. The big round belly, the drooping head, the friendly eyes and fur as smooth and calming as gently running water. “He’s perfect,” he breathes.

 _“He_ is ridiculously large,” Garak remarks, poking at the teddy with some apprehension.

“Don’t listen to him,” Julian says, speaking to the bear. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Garak leans in to examine the label attached to the bear’s left leg. “You do realise this _dj… djungelskog_ is quite incapable of hearing you.” Julian ignores him and nuzzles into _djungelskog’s_ neck, a shiver running through him at how _perfect_ the texture of his fur is. Garak sighs deeply. “I don’t suppose there is _any_ chance of persuading you to leave without this… children’s soft toy? It will clash terribly with your quarter’s colour palette.”

Wearing his most pathetic expression and puppy dog eyes, Julian turns to meet Garak’s gaze with _djungelskog_ in his arms. “Will you buy him for me? Please, _darling.”_

Garak looks resigned. “How could I say no?”

A grin spreads across Julian’s face and he turns away in case he blushes, because this is a very… _couple-y_ kind of thing to do. And the worst part is, it isn’t really pretend either. He _does_ want the teddy bear – a lot. And he’s pretty sure Garak would buy it for him even if they didn’t have this ridiculous game going on. He hopes the shop assistant isn’t staring. “Thank you,” he says.

“You don’t think that other… _bear_ of yours won’t be _jealous?”_ Garak asks.

“Kukalaka? No, he’s very understanding. And besides, he’s still living with Leeta at the moment.”

Garak’s expression is some combination of fondness and disbelief. He appraises _djungelskog_ for a moment more before turning away back towards the checkout and the exit. Something small and sharp and heavy sinks in Julian’s chest – not quite a sadness, because he has no reason to be sad. He used to feel it all the time in Internment Camp 371, staring at the blank dark walls of solitary confinement and aching. He felt it when he raised his tired head and met familiar eyes, pale and surprised and suddenly wondering what version of Doctor Julian Bashir they had been looking at for the past month. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever met two people who get along as well as you seem to,” the assistant tells Garak as the two of them walk on, Julian frozen where he stands with his arms around an oversized teddy bear.

“Well, even _I_ must admit our earlier encounters were characterised by some degree of harmless bickering,” Garak replies. “It did seem for a while that the dear doctor and I would do _anything_ but agree.”

The assistant laughs softly. Julian stares.

What did Miles say? He doesn’t really have to ask himself that question. He knows. He remembers everything. Cardassians flirt by arguing. 

“I’m glad you worked things out, then,” the assistant says. For the first time, Julian notices a lanyard accidentally hanging down her back that reads _Sam._ “Besides,” she adds with another laugh, “this is going to look great on my sales record.”

Julian forces himself forward. Feigning nonchalance, he scampers back to Garak’s side with _djungelskog_ tucked beneath his left arm. His fingers itch to fiddle with something, but he reaches for Garak’s hand instead. He clutches onto cool scaled skin. Their fingers interlace. His heart nearly stops. Panicking, he throws a glance sideways to see Garak unaffected, except perhaps for the slightest twitch in the muscles of his face. 

They’re actually holding hands. Elim Garak, famed spy of the Obsidian Order, not so famed son of Enabran Tain, is holding his hand while they walk through a homeware store and pretend to be boyfriends. Or maybe husbands. He doesn't think they've fleshed that part of their made-up history out yet. It’s not quite what he was imagining when he asked Garak to help him out today. 

Sam leads them to a payment station and Julian hangs back while Garak goes to enter his credit details, oddly saddened by having to let go of him once again. He remembers being back in Dominion space, holding onto Garak where he lay on one of the solid slabs they passed off for beds as if he might be able to drag him out of that darkness in his mind through touch.

Worf had asked Julian a question while they waited for Garak to come back to reality. _Do you trust him with your life?_ Julian answered yes. He thought about the way had Garak glanced at him over his shoulder while Tain lay dying, and answered yes. Worf simply nodded and went back to reciting Klingon operas to pass the time.

“I bet you never expected something like this when Starfleet sent you all the way out here,” Sam says, her eyes on _djungelskog._ She looks happy, and Julian is glad that even if everything they’ve told her is a few beats off from the truth, it seems real to her. 

“I chose to come here,” he tells her. “But yes. I didn’t expect… any of this.” Not the wormhole, not the Dominion, not Garak. “But the people you love are never the ones you see coming.” And he _really_ wishes he hadn’t said _that_.

Sam smiles, finally noticing her round-the-wrong-way lanyard and setting it right. “I’m jealous,” she admits. “He seems wonderful.” 

_Wonderful_ isn’t the word Julian would use to describe Garak, but he nods anyway. Garak is much more than and very different to wonderful. “Yes, he is… really something.”

“My shift ends in five,” she says. “Do you think he would mind showing me his shop? I love fashion – I studied it in school before I decided to take a gap year working on one of these freighters – but I never get to see new work anymore.”

“No,” Julian replies. “Not at all. In fact, I think he’d be delighted.”

Garak returns from the checkout and Julian wonders how he’s ever going to convince Garak to let him pay it all back. It wouldn’t matter if they were together for real.

They’re not.

It’s why it’s all the more shocking when Garak retakes his hand of his own volition, locking their fingers together as it were the most natural thing in the world. Julian is grateful he has _djungelskog_ there to hold onto, or he might just fall over from disbelief. He never counted Garak as a very _touchy-feely_ kind of person, not like someone like him or Jadzia or Leeta. Garak hovers, he doesn’t hold. Maybe he’s just that good of a liar, he can step into totally different shows and become another person. Except this doesn’t feel like holding hands with a stranger. It feels like holding hands with Garak.

“I shouldn’t have let you pay for all of that,” he murmurs, leaning in close enough so that only Garak can hear.

A smile curls Garak’s lips, but he makes no reply. “Now, you wanted to see my shop?” he says instead, speaking to Sam. “I would be more than happy to show you my latest designs. It is the _least_ I can do.”

“I just have to sign out,” she replies. “Start walking – I’ll catch up.”

Julian grips Garak’s hand a little tighter and briefly cringes at what Miles might say if he saw what was going on right now. Or Jadzia. God, Jadzia. She can never, ever know. _Never._

“Thank you for shopping with us!” another employee calls out as they exit, back into the familiar airlock and the darkness of DS9’s grey walls in contrast to the freighter’s stark white. 

“Well, Doctor,” Garak says when they’re in the comparative silence of the corridor, his expression unreadable. “That was a surprisingly impressive performance. You never fail to reveal new hidden depths.” He doesn’t let go of Julian’s hand, somehow looking down at him with that frustrating _I know something that you don’t_ kind of look.

“Y-Yes,” Julian agrees. He looks into Garak’s eyes, suddenly aware that when he breathes in it’s very loud in the quiet hall. Not quite as loud as his heart beating in his own ears, though, racing so fast it verges on painful. “I’d hate to bore you.”

 _“Impossible,_ my dear doctor. Your company is endlessly entertaining. But unfortunately here is where we must part ways, if you intend on returning to your quarters.” Garak breaks eye contact to glance beyond Julian’s shoulder. “It seems our friend is watching,” he comments. It sounds like a challenge. 

“Oh.” Julian resists the urge to turn and look. What would a real couple do right now? What the hell is he thinking about – he knows, he’s been in relationships before. At least three of them that would count as ‘serious’ in their own ways, too. “If you, er… ever need someone to pretend to be in love with you, I guess you know who to call.” And _that_ was a weird way to phrase it. 

“Indeed.”

 _Djungelskog_ still stuffed under his arm, Julian reaches up, fingertips tracing down Garak’s scaled cheek and along his jaw. Time is standing still and he wonders how long Sam has been waiting for them to say goodbye. Ten seconds? A minute? Five? Garak inclines his head, almost imperceptibly. 

Julian only has half a second to ask himself what in the world he thinks he’s doing before he closes the distance and presses a brief kiss to Garak’s lips. It’s so quick and light he barely gets the chance to feel it, but the thrill that bubbles up in his chest is so strong it gives him the urge to start doing sprints in the corridor. Which is not a normal way to feel about a fake kiss with your best friend.

“Well,” Garak remarks quietly, “I daresay our companion can harbour no doubts about the validity of our relationship now.”

“Yes, well,” Julian says. He lets his hand fall from Garak’s face. “Bye.”

Garak smiles. “Until next time, Doctor.”

 _Next time._ Julian swallows his breath. “Right. I uh, love you, honey.”

“I love you too, my dear,” Garak says, and he says it as though it’s the simplest lie in the world. “Now run along, I will endeavour to find you later.”

He doesn’t have to be asked twice. Too mortified to meet Sam's eye, he speed-walks until he gets around the corner and can make a break for it, dashing down the corridor with _djungelskog_ in tow. He thinks he must have lost his mind, because there’s no chance Garak just said that to him, even as a joke. No chance. And there is no chance he actually liked it. 

No chance in hell.

“Julian!”

He skids to a halt. Sharp blue eyes, curious and roving. Oh no. 

“Julian, are you okay?”

“…Jadzia.”

“You look like somebody just took a shot at you,” she comments, eyes fixing themselves on _djungelskog._ “Did something happen?”

Laughing nervously, he shakes his head. His lips are still tingling from the feeling of Garak’s kiss. “If I told you,” he replies, “you wouldn’t even believe me.” He looks back over his shoulder, wishing he could know what’s going through Garak’s head right now, and how much he meant it when he said _my dear._ When he turns back to Jadzia, the corridor seems to have gotten warmer. “I hardly even believe it myself.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading as always, darlings. I hope you're all staying safe these holidays and taking care of yourselves. I really appreciate any kudos or comments if you enjoyed this fic, or feel free to come yell at me on tumblr @kiranxrys and tell me what to write next! I love you all very much. And djungelskog. I love djungelskog. He is literally sitting next to me right now as I write this. 
> 
> \- cami xx
> 
> (p.s. this will probably be getting a sequel, a classic _Doctor Bashir, I Presume_ fake relationship fic. maybe. we'll see.)


End file.
